Guilty as Sin (34 page)

"Is that an overture, Mr. Brooks?" she asked dryly, accepting the gesture just the same.

"Hell, no." He pulled her close, bending his head down so that his gaze met hers full force. "I'm being damned gallant. When you go to bed with me, sweetheart, the last thing you'll be getting is sleep."

Remarkably, Ellen caught herself smiling at his audacity.

"You're incorrigible, Mr. Brooks," she murmured. "Among other things."

She walked with him to the door, where he dealt with laces on his boots and zippers on his parka.

"I don't see how people live in this state," he complained. "It's too damn much work."

"Winter is nature's way of weeding out the faint of heart," Ellen said. "Thanks again for driving me home."

"You ought to have a cop sitting out front," he cautioned.

She shook her head. "With all that's been going on, there's no manpower for baby-sitting detail. There's a patrol car prowling the neighborhood, and I've got a trace on my phone. And I've got Harry. If someone tries to break in, he'll knock them down and lick their face until help arrives."

"I could stay all night," he offered with a leer.

"I don't think so."

"Like I said before," he murmured, hooking a finger under her chin, "you think too much."

Ellen caught her breath, expecting him to kiss her. Half hoping he would. But he turned and walked out. And she was left alone to call herself a fool.

CHAPTER
 
19

By Friday morning Mother Nature had dumped six inches of new snow on southern Minnesota, and a blast of air had come sweeping down from Saskatchewan to stir it into a ground-scudding cloud that limited visibility to a fraction of a mile. The temperature, which had been teetering on the brink of tolerance, went over the edge and into long, hard fall, taking spirits with it. School was canceled. Roads outside of Deer Lake were closed. In Campion the search for Dustin Holloman had to be called off because of the danger to the volunteers. No one spoke of the danger to Dustin.

The hope was that his kidnapper was keeping him safe and warm, that he would eventually be found or returned unharmed, as Josh had been, the hope was that they would get lucky. The idea that they were all relying on the kindness and benevolence of a psychopath sat like a mace in the center of Mitch's chest. There was no way of knowing what the next move in the game would be. No way of knowing when their luck would run out.

The pressure had snipped his temper down to the short hairs, so that even at nine o'clock in the morning his daily quota of patience was nearly spent.

Ignoring the proffered chair, he paced the width of Christopher Priest's small office, a room crowded with file cabinets and bookcases. Short towers of text and reference books and stacks of student papers were neatly aligned across the surface of the scarred old desk. A personal computer sat whirring softly to itself, green cursor blinking impatiently beside a prompt sign on the screen.

"So the Sci-Fi Cowboys spent the night in Deer Lake?" he asked.

Priest watched him with owl eyes and an impassive expression. "Yes. The Minneapolis schools were off yesterday and today for in-service. We had arranged for the boys to spend the weekend in Deer Lake doing fund-raising activities for Garrett's defense."

"And they stayed where?"

"At the youth hostel here on campus."

"Supervised?"

"I was with them most of the evening. We had a celebratory dinner with Garrett and his attorney," he said with just a hint of smugness, his gaze sliding toward Ellen.

"What time did you finish?" she asked.

"Things started breaking up around eight."

"And what about the rest of the evening? Can you account for the whereabouts of all the boys?"

A hint of angry color stained his cheeks. He tugged at the too-short sleeves of his black turtleneck. "They're not prisoners, Ms. North. A bond of trust is essential to the success of our program."

"Yeah, well, maybe that trust isn't always deserved," Mitch grumbled.

Priest gave a little sniff of affront. "Just what is this about, Chief?"

"Last night someone defaced Ms. North's car with a switchblade."

"And you automatically assume that someone is one of the Cowboys? That's patently unfair and discriminatory."

"Not at all, Professor," Mitch said, bracing his hands on the back of the chair he had declined. "With all due respect to your program—and you know I've been a fan in the past—your kids are A-students in this kind of shit. They have records. They have motive. They are, therefore, logical suspects. You, of all people, should be able to grasp that."

"The Cowboys aren't the only people in town unhappy with Ms. North," Priest pointed out.

"No, they're not," Mitch conceded. "And my office will follow all possible avenues. Which brings me to my next question—where were you last night around nine?"

Priest's jaw dropped, a show of spontaneous emotion that looked genuine. "You can't possibly think I would be involved in something so— so—"

"Juvenile?"

His face flushed and he shot up from his chair. "After all the hours my sudents and I put in at the volunteer center— After I've bent over backward to help with the investigation— I took a polygraph, for heaven's sake! I can't tell you how angry this makes me."

Mitch straightened, shoving the chair into the front of Priest's old oak desk with a rattle and a thump. "Welcome to the club, Professor. I've been working this case around the clock from day one and it just keeps letting worse. I can no longer afford to be polite. I can't afford to worry about whether or not it offends people to be questioned. I don't have time to step around egos. Here's the bottom line: Garrett Wright stands accused. You are a friend and colleague of Garrett Wright. That makes you fair game."

"Chief Holt is simply doing his job, Professor," Ellen said, working to show a little diplomacy, though her own temper was slipping. She'd had to begin the day arranging to have her car towed from the courthouse lot to Manley Vanloon's garage for repairs and repainting. Stooping to what he felt was an abuse of her position, she had called Manley himself and asked him to have one of his service mechanics deliver a loaner to her house before answering all of the calls from the hardworking people who needed jump-starts for frozen batteries.

"I understand your protective attitude toward the Sci-Fi Cowboys," he said. "But the fact remains, their very existence makes them logical suspects in the vandalism."

Priest regarded her with the thinnest hint of a frown touching his wide, lipless mouth. "Is it standard procedure for victims to attend police interrogations of suspects?"

"This isn't an interrogation, Professor," she said, "although Mitch or one of his men will need to talk with all the boys, just as they will be talking with other possible suspects. What I've come for is to request that you turn over to my office a list of names and addresses for all the Sci-Fi Cowboys past and present."

"For what purpose?" he asked tightly. "So the police can harass everyone who ever knew Garrett? This is an outrage!"

"As part of the ongoing background check," Ellen answered, rising. "We need to speak with as many people who have worked closely with Dr. Wright as we can. It's nothing extraordinary, Professor. I was surprised Agent Wilhelm hadn't already made the request."

"It's an invasion of privacy."

"No, it's not."

She leveled a steely look at the little man with his shrunken sweater and oversize eyeglasses and moral outrage cracking his usual emotionless facade. Two weeks ago she had thought he was a generous, compassionate man of foresight; a helpful citizen who had thrown himself into the efforts at the Josh Kirkwood volunteer center and volunteered to aid the police with his computer skills. Today she harbored suspicions that he might be protecting a criminal or worse—that he was himself a player in Garrett Wright's twisted game.

Megan had suspected Priest. Olie Swain, the convicted pedophile who had committed suicide in jail, had audited Priest's computer courses. Their association may have gone deeper. Megan had been investigating the possibility when she was attacked—in the front yard of Priest's secluded country home. There may well have been more to that than mere coincidence. Every way Ellen turned, reality was mutating into something ugly.

"It's called doing a thorough job," she said. "And if it weren't for the fact that it's touching you directly, you'd be glad for it."

She picked up her briefcase and nodded to him. "Thank you for your time, Professor. If you could put that list together today and fax it to my office, I would appreciate it. If you choose to be stubborn, I can get a warrant, but I really don't think you want to play that game. The publicity could only hurt the Cowboys. I know you don't want that."

"No, I don't," he said, blowing out a breath. His arms fell to his sides, bony shoulders slumping in defeat. He looked from Ellen to Mitch, the uncharacteristic emotions draining from his face, leaving the slate blank. "I don't want that at all. I'm sorry if I overreacted, but this program means a great deal to me. And having tried to help with the investigation into Josh's disappearance, then having this kind of scrutiny turned on me and the Cowboys ... I don't know," he muttered, shaking his head. "I feel a certain sense of betrayal."

"I understand, Professor," Ellen said. "I think we both do."

The closest Mitch came to acknowledgment or apology was a twist of his mouth. As he turned toward the door, a pair of lanky teenagers stepped in.

"Hey, it's Lady Justice!" Tyrell Mann said with a big grin splitting his face. He strutted past Ellen. "Our man Costello kicked your pretty behind yesterday, Lady Justice."

Ellen borrowed an attitude from Brooks. "It's only bail."

"Give it up, Goldie," Tyrell sneered, leaning over her. "You haven't got a prayer."

She held her ground, staring him square in the face, meeting the belligerence burning in his eyes full on. "We'll see. You know what they say—it ain't over till it's over."

She watched for a flicker of recognition or wariness, but there was nothing. His lip curled derisively. "You ain't got shit on the Doc."

Mitch stepped in, planting a hand on Tyrell's chest and moving him back. "You'll show the lady respect."

Tyrell glared at him. "Who the fuck are you?"

"Tyrell," Priest said, stepping between them, "this is Chief of Police Holt."

"A cop." Contempt twisted Tyrell's features. "I should'a guessed."

The other boy stepped forward with the plastic smile of a salesman, sticking his hand out. "J.R. Andersen, Chief. Tyrell's cranky. You'll have to excuse him."

"No, I won't," Mitch said flatly. "But I don't have time for this now. We'll have a little chat later today, Tyrell."

"The hell—"

"We will." He turned to Priest. "I'll set something up for this afternoon. Someone will call you."

Priest looked resigned and unhappy. "Can we at least do it here in my office?"

"Do what?" Andersen asked.

Mitch nodded and ushered Ellen out into the hall, closing the door behind them.

"I hate to come down on them," he said as they made their way toward the stairs. "It is a good program, but the potential for trouble is there, too. I mean, if you think about it, what's worse—below-average kids with no consciences or smart kids with no consciences? And don't try to tell me Tyrell there has a conscience lurking under all that hostility. He's a stick of dynamite with a short fuse."

The question was, Had Garrett Wright provided the spark that had ignited an act of violence against her? Ellen turned the possibilities over in her mind as they walked. Priest's office was located on the fourth floor of Cray Hall, a dank old mausoleum of a building, each level a maze of narrow hallways and cracker-box offices. Not even the mustard-colored walls could save the place from cheerlessness.

"There's no denying Tyrell blames me for Garrett Wright's predicament," Ellen said. "But the professor had a point—the Cowboys aren't the only ones in Wright's corner."

"We know Wright himself has an alibi for last night," Mitch said. "After dinner he was with Costello in Costello's office until nearly ten-thirty. Then Costello drove him home."